


Fred

by Tor_Raptor



Series: Fragile [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cancer, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Leukaemia, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, The Deerstalker Hat, Tragedy, Twenty questions, childhood cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-20 08:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16552166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tor_Raptor/pseuds/Tor_Raptor
Summary: Eight-year-old Fred Hunter is a huge fan of Sherlock Holmes. When he gets the opportunity to meet him in person, he discovers they have more in common than he ever imagined. But both John and Sherlock struggle to cope with the repercussions of interacting with the young boy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for not having posted anything in such a long time. I promised myself I'd finish all my college applications (the US definition of college) before I was allowed to write. Now I've done that, so I can go back to fanfic, hooray! I split this one into 3 parts, although it's really one continuous story, I thought it was too long for a one-shot. So the lengths of the chapters are not consistent whatsoever, but that's not important.
> 
> Fair warning: this one's a heart-wrencher.

Dr. Watson—

My name is Margaret Hunter, but I'm writing you on behalf of my son, Fred. Ever since he could talk, he's been obsessed with mysteries and detective stories. Once he discovered it, he read your blog religiously. Nothing excites him more than a new Sherlock Holmes case. I didn't know what I would do with him during the long hiatus, he was so desperate for new material. I write you to make a rather unusual request, but I hope you and Mr. Holmes will consider the circumstances.

Two years ago, Fred was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukaemia. He's been fighting it hard, but nothing seems to be working, and the doctors have all but officially declared him terminal. We're not sure how long he has, but as his mother I'm trying to make the best of it. I know he'd love nothing more than to meet Mr. Holmes. He doesn't know I've written you about this, and I'll understand if you're unable to make the trip. But it would be a wonderful surprise to brighten what may be one of his last days. Thank you,

—Margaret Hunter

~0~

John checked the inbox on his blog hoping to find a case Sherlock would actually find worthy of his time. Instead, he encountered that message. He was utterly shell-shocked. What were the odds? The same exact disease, even down to the subtype. Obviously, this woman hadn't seen the news stories about Sherlock's hospitalization that had been leaked. John had explained the hiatus on his blog with the Sherlock-approved memo that he'd 'fallen ill.' No details were provided, and those that followed the blog easily swallowed the understatement. Sherlock told John that they'd probably enjoy weaving their own theories.

There was no way this woman knew that Sherlock's long break from casework was a result of the exact same illness her son suffered from. He wondered if she would still have made the request if she'd known. The boy, Fred, would undoubtedly love Sherlock even more if he learned they had something in common. John knew, without a doubt, that a visit from Sherlock Holmes would be the best thing to happen to this kid in a long time. He only hoped Sherlock would see it that way.

Broaching the subject was difficult. Sherlock trusted him to relay the interesting cases submitted through the blog, and might tune him out if it didn't immediately prove worthwhile. John hoped he'd understand the urgency of the situation because of how close to home it fell. John decided to bring it up on a Monday morning, just one day after the conclusion of their previous case.

"Sherlock, I received a message through the blog the other day," John began.

"Case?" he immediately inquired, barely glancing up from his microscope.

"No, it's not a case, but it's important."

"What could possibly be more important than a case?"

"If you just listen to me, you'll find out. This woman, Margaret Hunter, wrote me about her son who's a big fan of yours. She requested we pay them a visit."

"Why?"

"Sherlock, this little boy's been battling leukaemia for two years. They don't think he's going to live much longer." John held his breath as he watched Sherlock process this information. His hands immediately dropped from the microscope's adjustment knobs, and his mouth fell open. He glanced up at John, scanning his features for any sign of untruthfulness. Apparently convinced this wasn't an elaborate prank, his eyes widened in shock, and possibly fear.

"Does he know about…" Sherlock didn't even need to finish for John to know what he was referring to.

"No. He just knows you as the famous consulting detective."

"And he wants to meet me?"

"Yes." Sherlock appeared confused at this concept. It saddened John to think that Sherlock couldn't understand why anyone would want him around unless they needed his intellect to solve a crime. He'd lived most of his life being only tolerated by others because he could provide answers. John added, "You actually have quite the fan base. There are probably hundreds, maybe thousands, of people who would give their right hand to meet you."

"Strange. I would like to see the boy, but the others I'm unlikely to ever encounter unless they end up as intriguing corpses." John didn't expect him to be so amenable to the idea. He thought Sherlock would require at least five minutes' worth of convincing.

"Fantastic. I was worried you'd refuse and I'd have to figure out what to tell that poor mother," John admitted. Sherlock looked up at him and stated firmly:

"His days are numbered. I know exactly how that feels."

~0~

Ms. Hunter—

I discussed it with him, and Sherlock would love to meet Fred. We will make ourselves available for any date that works for you. Though he'd rather the details remain a surprise until you meet in person, I think you'll find that the reason for Sherlock's earlier hiatus will make him a very sympathetic companion. Thank you,

—John Watson

~0~

John composed that reply to Margaret Hunter's message and, after receiving the go-ahead from Sherlock, promptly sent it. Almost immediately after, his message was reciprocated. They were given the name of the hospital and the date: two days from now. Fred and Margaret weren't in London, but a more rural area in the north. John booked them a hotel and instructed Sherlock to pack. Only one important task remained: telling Mrs. Hudson.

John asked Sherlock if he wanted to be included in the discussion, but he declined. So John went downstairs by himself to their landlady's home and told her they'd be leaving for a day or two.

"Where are you going? Is this for a case?" she asked.

"No, it's not a case," John informed her. "A woman contacted me asking if I could get Sherlock to come visit her son. He loves the blog and all Sherlock's cases."

"I'm sure lots of people do. But is one admirer really worth making such a trip?"

"Well, this particular boy has the same type of cancer Sherlock had. Unfortunately, his treatments haven't worked as effectively."

"Oh John, that's terrible!" she wrapped her arms around him in a motherly hug. "That poor child. Sherlock's really going to see him?"

"Yes."

"Good. That'll make him very happy."

"That's what we're hoping."

"Tell Sherlock how pleased I am that he's going through with this."

"I will, Mrs. H."

John returned upstairs and packed his own bag. It didn't take long, as they wouldn't be gone long, and he knew how to pack efficiently. He checked in on Sherlock to find he'd finished as well, except for one thing. Sherlock stood over his still-open suitcase with the deerstalker clutched in both hands. He looked up when he heard John enter and silently held the hat out towards him, his way of asking John what he thought. John nodded. Fred would love the hat. Sherlock put it in the case and zipped it up.

~0~

John would drive; they'd decided that without needing a conversation. Sherlock didn't cope well with the sensory overload that came with driving, and he'd claimed on multiple occasions that the monotony just might lull him to sleep. They spent the first half hour of the ride in utter silence, until John couldn't take it anymore.

"Can we at least talk about something so I'm not so bored?" John asked.

"You? Bored?" Sherlock said disbelievingly.

"Yes, we mortals are subject to boredom, believe it or not."

"I'm not an immortal, John, as you're well aware." This comment stung more than John expected. Sherlock was reminding him how close he'd come to death. Fred's condition would also show the destructive power of this disease, a force to which Sherlock nearly fell victim. This experience might be more difficult than John initially thought.

"While I may not express it as exuberantly as you do, I can, in fact, get bored," John said matter-of-factly.

"Well, what do you suggest I do about it?"

"You're the genius, you think of something."

"I don't know. Twenty questions?"

"Sure. Do you want to guess or me?"

"You guess."

"Please don't pick something I've never heard of."

"I won't."

"Is it an animal?" John began.

"Not really."

"Food?"

"No."

"Inanimate object?"

"No."

"So it's alive, but it's not an animal."

"Sort of alive."

"You do know your answers are supposed to be yes or no, right?"

"Yes, I know, but some things aren't so black and white. I'm trying to help you by being more specific."

"Couldn't you just pick something simple, like a dog?"

"Is that one of your twenty questions?" Sherlock inquired, a small smile playing on his lips.

"No, because it was a rhetorical question. So it's sort of alive?"

"Yes."

"Is it a bacteria?"

"No."

"Protozoa?"

"No."

"Is it bigger than a loaf of bread?"

"Definitely not."

"Is it microscopic?" John inquired, suspecting Sherlock would choose something obscure and likely science-related.

"Yes."

"Is it something you've seen before?"

"Yes."

"Human?"

"Yes, it's part of a human."

"Is it a cell?"

"Yes."

"There, I've guessed it," John said victoriously.

"No, you've got to be more specific."

"Fine. Does it cause sickness?"

"It can."

"A type of cell in the human body that can cause sickness," John confirmed. "That's not a question, just me trying to keep up with everything. Is it a cancer cell?" He suspected Sherlock would choose something like this in light of their current destination and agenda.

"Sometimes," Sherlock answered.

"Is it found in the blood?"

"Yes."

"Leukocyte."

"Yes. It only took you fifteen questions, I'm impressed."

"That means I get five more, and you have to answer," John insisted, seizing this opportunity to pry into the inner workings of Sherlock's brain.

"Why do you need more? You already guessed it."

"Not about that. I want to ask you about what's going through your head right now, and I want to demand an honest answer."

"Why?"

"Because I care."

"Fine. You get five."

"First, did you pick leukocyte because of its correlation to leukaemia?"

"Yes."

"Second, did you have any second thoughts when you agreed to this?"

"No," Sherlock stated promptly. John didn't expect him to answer that one without first deliberating.

"Why?"

"That's not a yes or no."

"I never said these five have to be, and you still agreed to answer. So tell me."

Sherlock sighed, but eventually responded, "Because I understand exactly how Fred is suffering. If my presence can bring him any sort of respite, how can I possibly deny him that?" John took his eyes off the road briefly to glance at Sherlock, who was staring determinedly out the front windshield. Maybe it was easier for him to admit that without looking at John.

"Not a question," John preambled, "But after hearing that, I just need to tell you how great you are. This is one of the most selfless things I've ever seen you do."

"It's not like there was a case on or anything," Sherlock countered, a feeble attempt to make light of his gesture.

"No, but I knew you at a time when you would've tuned me out completely the second you realized I wasn't talking about a case. You listened to this boy's story, and you decided to do something noble."

"I'm not sure noble is an appropriate word in this situation. I'm not exactly self-sacrificing."

"Are you sure? I'm going to let you off the hook and skip the fifth question, but here's the fourth: are you nervous?"

"Oh God, yes."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the meat of the story is. I think I had a little too much fun writing Fred's character :)

They'd arrived around eight last night, eaten a light meal, and gone to bed early. Today they would finally get to meet Fred. John was nervous, and he could tell Sherlock was nervous not just by the declaration he'd made yesterday. He was pacing, wringing his hands, and muttering under his breath. John knew any attempts to calm him down would prove futile, so he simply allowed Sherlock to work through his nerves. His worst fear was that Sherlock would panic and frighten the child. However, John didn't spend nearly enough time worrying about his own mental state.

The two men made their way to the hospital and followed the directions provided by Margaret. Sherlock had donned the deerstalker and his famous scarf and coat, looking every bit the forbidding detective. He and John walked side by side through the hospital corridors until Margaret intercepted them. She introduced herself and eagerly shook hands with the both of them. John watched her gaze linger on Sherlock for a moment longer than necessary. He knew that even with a hat on, a patch of scar tissue above his right eyebrow remained visible. She didn't comment on that, or on the missing appendages she undoubtedly felt during the handshake. Instead, she simply gushed, "I can't tell you how thrilled I am that you've come. Fred still doesn't know. I told him I have a surprise, and he's been trying really hard to guess it. I'll let him know that it's happening really soon, could you step through the door in approximately three minutes?"

"Absolutely," John and Sherlock replied in unison. They stepped out of sightline of the doorway, and Margaret turned around and headed back inside. John glanced at the time, and then at Sherlock, who looked like he was readying himself to charge into battle. John knew how much Sherlock hated hospitals, yet here they were. The fact that this was a pediatric area definitely helped ease their anxiety. The décor was drastically different than that they'd encountered during Sherlock's stay. Friendly-looking anthropomorphized animals decorated the pastel-colored walls, and all the staff milling about appeared downright cheerful despite the depressing nature of their jobs. He glanced at the time again: three minutes had passed. John looked up at Sherlock and Sherlock looked down at John. They nodded in stereo and stepped through the door.

John had been preparing himself to deal with Sherlock if he freaked out or broke down. Turns out, that was the least of his worries. Because when John Watson's gaze fell on the patient in the hospital bed, he didn't see a young boy he'd never met before. He saw Sherlock. He saw his best friend as he'd been not so long ago: gaunt, pale, and hooked up to a multitude of wires and tubes just to keep him alive and attempt to flush out the invaders killing him from the inside out. John's breathing picked up and he felt the beginnings of a panic attack, but he forced himself to swallow and take a deep breath. He clenched his eyes shut for a few moments, and then opened them again.

Sherlock was right next to him, healthy and safe. The figure in the bed was definitely not Sherlock, it was Fred: a little boy of about eight with a sickly pale complexion and not a hair on his head. But John's gaze wasn't drawn to the boy's lack of hair, the faded bruises scattered about his pale skin, or the IV line leading into his thin arm. John saw Fred's eyes light up when he recognized the men in front of him. John expected him to be rendered speechless, or maybe squeal in delight. He did not expect the boy's first words to be "you look different." But Fred was evidently astute enough to notice something didn't quite match.

John's blog didn't have any photographs of Sherlock post-cancer. As far as he knew, no newspaper had gotten any either. This boy's image of Sherlock Holmes came exclusively from older photos that would pop up with a Google search. And even in his current state, he immediately picked up on the difference.

"Aren't you observant," Sherlock remarked with a smile. "What's different?" He took a step closer. John could tell he was truly impressed with Fred's keenness and eager to test his skills further. Fred sat up a little straighter and scrutinized Sherlock from head to toe. John had been asked to observe and deduce things by Sherlock many times, and he was always embarrassed to try because he knew whatever he found would be incorrect or insufficient. Because of this, he was always reluctant to even attempt it. Fred showed no such qualms. He read over Sherlock like John had seen Sherlock read over a crime scene time and time again.

"This is new," Fred reached up to his own forehead and gestured around the area corresponding to Sherlock's scar. "And your hair's gone missing or been cut short enough to be completely hidden by your hat. Are you undercover?" Fred looked up at the detective with such admiration, John's heart melted. He looked across the room at Margaret, and discovered her on the verge of happy tears.

"No, I'm not undercover," Sherlock said. "But I am here on important business."

"Is there a case in this hospital? Did someone get murdered?" Fred's enthusiasm mirrored Sherlock's when discussing murder, and John couldn't help but grin.

"Nope. I'm here because your mother asked me to come. I wouldn't miss an opportunity to meet a fan as avid as yourself."

"Really? You came all the way here from London just for me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I think I owe you an explanation," Sherlock began. "Your mother informed me of how devastated you were when I took a break from casework."

"Yeah. Dr. Watson's blog said you were sick. I thought that was a cover story and you were off saving the world or something. Nobody gets sick for that long." John found it a tad strange, this comment coming from a boy who'd been very sick for even longer than Sherlock had been. Most likely, Fred thought someone as seemingly god-like as Sherlock Holmes couldn't get sick like that.

"Really? Is it truly unbelievable that someone could be sick for that long?" Sherlock asked Fred. John could see the gears working in both of their brains, and it was delightful to witness.

"But only really bad diseases can make you sick for a really long time. Things like the flu or strep throat go away in a week or so."

"That's right. You're eliminating the impossible…" Sherlock began.

"So whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," Fred finished. "So you didn't have the flu?" Sherlock shook his head. "Or a head cold?" Another shake. "And it wasn't a cover-up?" Again, Sherlock denied. "So… it really was a bad disease?" Sherlock nodded. "Did you get something like the bubonic plague from a corpse?"

"No. My illness was something you and your mother are probably a bit more familiar with than the bubonic plague," Sherlock explained, reaching up to remove the deerstalker. John held his breath as Sherlock uncovered his head, revealing the most telling evidence of his ordeal. Margaret audibly gasped; Fred simply gawked in wonder.

"Cancer?" the word was barely discernible as Fred uttered it, but of course Sherlock heard him.

"Acute lymphoblastic leukaemia," Sherlock confirmed. Margaret turned to look at John, asking him if this was true without even having to use words. John nodded grimly, and she returned her gaze to Sherlock and Fred.

"Really?" Fred clearly hadn't been convinced.

"Yes, really," Sherlock replied.

"No way."

"I can have my medical records faxed here if you don't believe me."

"No, I believe you. I just don't believe it! Mum, did you know?" Fred glanced at his mother, who shook her head.

"I'm just as surprised as you are," she said. Fred's eyes flitted from Sherlock to his mother and back, then to John. The boy's next observation threw John for a loop.

"Is that why Dr. Watson panicked when he walked in?" he asked Sherlock. He directed the follow-up question to John: "Do I remind you of him when he was sick?" God, did this kid pick up on everything? Even Sherlock hadn't noticed John's little episode. He felt his cheeks flush red as Sherlock's scrutinizing gaze fell upon him. That's exactly what had happened, and John was still shaken. A silent conversation passed between doctor and detective:

"John, are you okay? Do you need to leave?"

"I'm fine. Just a quick flashback."

"Are you sure? We can arrange an excuse for you to leave."

"I'm sure."

John steeled his stance, and Sherlock returned his attention to Fred. The boy seemed to realize he'd struck a pressure point, and quickly changed the subject: "Are you in remission?"

"Yes."

"How'd that happen?" he indicated the scar on Sherlock's head.

"It's from an infection," Sherlock explained. "They had to cut away everything that turned bad, and this is how it healed."

"You know it's shaped like a heart, right?" Fred giggled.

"Yes, I know. I asked the doctors to add an arrow piercing it, but they said no." This made Fred laugh even harder, and Sherlock cracked a smile.

"Can I feel it?" Fred asked hesitantly. Sherlock bowed his head and allowed Fred to reach up and trace the outline with his small fingers. His hand halted on the raised bump of the Ommaya reservoir, then continued. "Does it hurt?"

"No."

"What's the bump?"

"That's a device they put in to get chemotherapy directly into my spinal fluid."

"Cool!"

"They just left it in because it's easier than going back in to take it out. But they still use it occasionally for spinal fluid samples."

"They can use that instead of a lumbar puncture?" John was surprised that a child so young would even know what a lumbar puncture is, but then again, Fred had undoubtedly endured several in his short life.

"Yes."

"Awesome." Most boys found superheroes or monster trucks awesome. John found it rather tragic that Fred considered an alternative to lumbar punctures to be of the same caliber. Fred decided then to change the subject again, interrogating Sherlock about the inner workings of his mind palace.

"What does it look like inside?"

"It's basically a big house with lots of little rooms."

"How do you decide which information to store in which room?"

"Things that are related get placed together. Almost like the Dewey Decimal system in a library."

"And you can just go there and find anything you want?"

"Yep. As long as it's already stored in there."

"So not the solar system," Fred remarked with a smirk.

Sherlock redirected his attention to John, and accused, "Did you really have to make that public?" John chuckled and nodded affirmatively. He hadn't believed it when he first learned of Sherlock's ignorance, but now he found it immensely funny the things he decided to delete.

"No, not much about the solar system gets filed away," Sherlock admitted. "You'd probably best me in an astronomy quiz." This, of course, made Fred smile. Not many people could best Sherlock Holmes at anything.

Within seconds, Fred changed the subject abruptly yet again. John marveled at his childlike inability to use transitions; it was quite adorable. He asked, "Was Dr. Watson your doctor when you were sick?"

"No. John is my friend, and doctors aren't supposed to treat their friends and family."

"Makes sense. But you must've had a really good doctor, since they made you better again." John and Sherlock met eyes, both remembering the horrible Dr. Harrison. Maybe she was a decent oncologist, but her bedside manner was atrocious. However, John detected something in Fred's tone that sounded like he knew he wouldn't get better. John didn't know how much Margaret and the doctors had disclosed to little Fred, but it didn't sound right to hear a child speak as if they knew they were going to die.

"Yes, I did have good doctors," Sherlock said. "But you do too."

"Yeah, they're nice. But I know I'm not getting any better. I understand a lot more than they think it do; they think big words are enough to keep me in the dark."

"What exactly do you know?" Margaret's shaky voice spoke up from the foot of the bed. Evidently, this was as much news to her as it was to John.

"Mum, you're not a very good secret keeper," Fred noted. "I know I'm terminal. You wouldn't have asked Mr. Holmes to come if there was any hope of a cure." Sherlock literally took a step back and looked frantically to John. This was an unexpected turn of events. Margaret was on the verge of tears, biting her lower lip. John himself was simply awestruck at Fred's intelligence. He was so young, yet he understood so much about the world and how it worked. As terrible as it sounded, he was one hundred percent right. John and Sherlock were summoned here because Margaret wanted her son's last days to contain more than pain and sorrow. Their presence was quite literally a going away present. Fred saw his mother's distress and assured her, "I'm okay with it. I want to know what comes next."

John had never heard such a wise remark from anyone—regardless of age. One would expect such insight to be available only to the elderly who'd seen everything good, bad, and ugly, but right in front of him was an eight-year-old boy who'd masterfully come to terms with his own demise. He was handling this better than John had when Sherlock was teetering on the edge. But what do you say to a kid who just told you he's prepared for death? Do you congratulate him on maturity beyond his years? Tell him he's allowed to be angry or upset? All John could do was gape.

But Sherlock took his own approach, and told Fred, "I wish I could've been that brave."

"What do you mean?" Fred looked up at the detective inquisitively.

"You're much better at this than I am. I was scared out of my mind most of the time."

"But you're Sherlock Holmes. You're not scared of anything!"

"I'm flattered you would think that, but that's far from the truth. Even I have my fair share of fears. Believe it or not, when I first got my diagnosis, I ran away. They found me on the hospital roof," Sherlock confessed. John remembered that incident, and how terrified he himself had been.

"That's silly," Fred chastised.

"Yeah, it is. But I was desperate and out of my mind with terror. I would've caused my friends a lot less grief if I'd handled this as gracefully as you."

"Thanks," Fred said meekly. John noted that in the short time they'd been there, he'd noticeably weakened. All this talking was tiring him out. The other adults in the room evidently noticed the same, and exchanged knowing glances. If they stayed much longer, it would be detrimental to Fred's health.

"I'm afraid John and I have got to leave really soon, but I have something for you," Sherlock announced. John was confused; he knew they hadn't brought anything. But Sherlock straightened up and handed Fred the deerstalker. Of course, this was the perfect opportunity for him to be rid of the hat he loathed so much. Except he wasn't throwing it out, as he'd threatened to do on many occasions, he was donating it to someone who would absolutely adore it. Fred took the hat in his little hands and stared up at Sherlock in wonder.

"But, this is your hat," Fred remarked.

"It was. Now it's yours."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Don't worry, I have plenty of others to keep my head warm in the winter. This one is special, and I think you should have it."

"Thank you." Fred reached up to give Sherlock a hug. The detective was startled at first, but soon wrapped his own arms around Fred's slim frame. John and Margaret couldn't help but smile at the image.

"Thank you for letting me come visit," Sherlock said to Fred, as he and John headed for the door. "It was a pleasure to meet you." Fred beamed back at him as Sherlock and John said goodbye to Margaret. Sherlock told her, "Take care of him."

"I will. Thank you both so much," she replied. With that, John and Sherlock left. John glanced over at Sherlock and noticed a faint smile still ghosting his lips. Neither man would ever forget how happy they'd made such a sick little boy.

~0~

Sherlock didn't sleep a wink that night. Usually, only casework could prevent him from falling asleep, but tonight his thoughts eddied around something other than a murder mystery: the unfairness of life. A large part of detective work was achieving justice and punishing wrongdoers. People that committed crimes were sentenced; that's how the world was supposed to work. But the power to condone rests not only in the hands of a fair court system.

Sherlock didn't believe in an all-powerful God or the idea of predetermined fate. The tides of randomness governed the majority of the universe and so called 'miracles' always had a scientific explanation. But what about reverse 'miracles?' Horrible things happened to innocent people for no discernable reason. Sherlock Holmes got leukaemia. John Watson was shot down in Afghanistan. Fred Hunter's life would come to an end after a mere eight years, two of which were spent in unimaginable misery.

It just. Wasn't. Fair.

When John first told him of Ms. Hunter's request, Sherlock had been momentarily stunned. Fred hadn't even known that Sherlock was a fellow cancer patient, yet he'd still wanted to meet him. That wasn't how things usually went. People didn't request to meet him unless they wanted him to solve their case. People were forced into his company and afterwards wished they'd managed to avoid it. Obviously he wasn't going to cure Fred's leukaemia with deductions, so why did he want him there? John had explained that there were actually many people in Sherlock's 'fan base.' Apparently the combination of his intellect and his demeanor made him quite the alluring character.

Once he heard Fred's story, he knew beyond a doubt that he needed to meet this boy. If meeting Sherlock Holmes was his dying wish, he'd get to meet Sherlock Holmes. He knew how it felt, wondering if any given day would be his last on Earth; he knew the fear, the anxiety, and the panic that surged through his veins faster than any chemotherapy. He'd needed something else to focus on besides his own mortality. For the most part, John had provided said distraction. Sherlock couldn't necessarily repay John for that—God, he hoped such a situation never arose—but he could pay it forward. If he could do for someone else what John had done for him, he'd feel complete.

Upon meeting Fred, Sherlock was immediately impressed. The boy had an eye for detail not unlike his own. It was heart-wrenching to know that such a magnificent brain would be shut down before it reached its full potential by a body that refused to cooperate. The more he conversed with Fred, the more he saw of himself in the young boy. He'd been all over the place, bouncing from inquiry to inquiry without bothering to transition. Why should he? Sherlock found transitions in conversation obsolete. If you wanted to say something, just come out and say it. Who cares if it's unrelated to the current topic? It's probably more important than whatever's being discussed.

But Fred's curiosity was perhaps his most striking feature. Sherlock had never been interviewed so thoroughly about the inner workings of his mind palace. Neither had anyone requested to investigate his scar tactilely. For most, visual assessment was more than enough. But as a detective, Sherlock knew that sight alone could never tell the whole story. However, most people refrained from touching things with which they were unfamiliar. Maybe Fred, at his young age, simply hadn't yet assimilated the idea of personal space. Sherlock could still feel the gentle brush of Fred's fingertips dusting the top of his head.

Thinking about Fred, his brain returned to the injustice of the situation. Was there really no hope for Fred? Had they tried all the combinations of chemotherapy drugs? Radiation? Bone marrow transplant? Maybe they'd tried but were unable to find a suitable donor. If he was a match, Sherlock would have donated in a heartbeat for a chance at saving Fred's life. Of course, Sherlock could never donate bone marrow because he himself had a blood cancer, but that didn't mean he didn't want to.

Now that Sherlock thought about it, the only person who was okay with Fred's fate was Fred himself. He'd said he was ready to explore what came next. When he heard this declaration, Sherlock felt instantly ashamed. How could this little kid be so accepting of an early demise when Sherlock had wanted to cry and scream and run away upon first hearing the diagnosis of leukaemia? He'd thought about death every second of every day since that fateful moment, and it had terrified him. How did Fred remain so calm? Did he simply refrain from thinking about dying? Was it an 'out of sight, out of mind' type philosophy? Or did he think about it often, wondering what form it would take, until he decided that it would be a pleasant surprise to discover himself at peace in the afterlife. Or was he so tired of fighting the cancer that he longed for any form of escape, no matter how permanent?

Sherlock rolled over in bed to glance at the clock: three in the morning. He'd been lying awake for four hours straight. John had zonked on the other bed within minutes of lying down. Typically, Sherlock would do the same, his still somewhat weakened body exhausted from a day of actually functioning properly. But that night his mind offered him no respite from the whirlwind of thoughts that swirled around his head like a tornado. And a few minutes later, another stressor arose.

"Sherlock," John mumbled. At first, Sherlock thought the doctor had woken up, but closer inspection revealed him to be talking in his sleep. Sherlock listened to the creaking of John's bed as his tossing and turning increased in intensity. He recognized the signs instantly: nightmare. Unfortunately, these were not that uncommon for the doctor. They'd improved steadily since he moved into 221B, but never abated entirely. Though John hadn't disclosed the exact content of these dreams, Sherlock knew they were most often twisted playbacks of events in Afghanistan.

When this happened at home, Sherlock used to play the violin to wake him up. John always got mad, but Sherlock much preferred him angry to distressed. He never told John that he woke him on purpose to release him from his own subconscious. Nowadays, he didn't have the instrument and he couldn't decide between letting the dream run its course or waking John some other way. He knew John would be embarrassed if he knew that Sherlock witnessed him in such a moment of weakness, but hadn't they both seen each other at their worst by now? And it was so hard to listen to him cry out in his sleep. Sherlock remembered one time he'd worked up the courage to slip into John's room and wake him up: when calling his name hadn't worked, he'd jostled John's good shoulder. He startled, lashing out to grab Sherlock by the wrist. Fortunately, he came back to himself before he hurt either himself or Sherlock.

"What's the matter? Is there a new case?" John had spluttered, now irritated at being awakened in the middle of the night. Sherlock wanted to tell him that he woke him to stop a nightmare, but something stalled his tongue.

"Umm, no. Not a case. I… uh," Sherlock stammered. He scrambled to come up with an excuse that wouldn't require John to get up or worry too much. "Umm, I have a headache. Where did you put the paracetamol?" It was frankly a terrible excuse, but John wasn't awake enough to see its flaws. Sherlock knew perfectly well where they kept things like that, and he knew it was rude to just wake someone up for something so trivial.

"Kitchen cabinet closest to fridge, top shelf," John muttered. "Might be some in the bathroom too."

"Thanks. Sorry to disturb you." Sherlock retreated to leave the room.

"Not getting sick, are you?" John inquired, sounding more awake now that he registered potential danger.

"No. I'm fine," Sherlock insisted, closing the door quietly behind him. Nowadays, that was how things went when Sherlock was awake to hear John struggle. If John didn't come out of it soon enough, Sherlock took matters into his own hands. He'd written a laundry list of excuses that he rotated through randomly. John didn't show any signs that he'd caught on to the charade, so it continued. Neither of them ever mentioned an incident the morning after.

But tonight, Sherlock listened more closely. John's mutterings revealed that the content of this particular dream was radically different than most. Sherlock's name passed his lips every couple of minutes, usually followed by a panicked whimper.

"Stop!" John half shouted, half cried. Sherlock wondered who he was talking to in this dreamscape, and what horrors they were inflicting to reduce him to such a state. "No more," he begged. His breathing picked up speed, and Sherlock's anxiety increased alongside John's. What should he do? Sherlock threw off his blankets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood up and walked closer to get a better look. John was drenched in sweat, tears rolling down his face even in sleep.

"John, wake up," Sherlock urged. When that failed, he resorted to shaking him. John sprang up in full combat mode, panting heavily. Sherlock anticipated John's next reaction and sat down next to him. Soon after, John collapsed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, sobbing into his chest. Sherlock rubbed comforting circles on his back.

"Shhh. Just a dream," he whispered. "You're safe." John continued to hold onto him, slowly getting his breathing back under control. They stayed like that for several minutes, Sherlock soothing John back into stability.

"Wasn't my safety I was worried about," John huffed, rubbing his eyes blearily.

"Me?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah."

"Do you want to talk about it? Would it help?"

John shrugged and slouched over from both exhaustion and dejection. "I'm sorry I woke you up," he sighed.

"You didn't. I haven't slept all night," Sherlock admitted.

"Thinking?"

"Yeah."

"About?"

"You really want to know?"

"If it's enough to keep you up at night, it might help to get it off your chest."

"I was thinking about Fred, and how unfair it all is. He's such a bright boy, so why him? Why anyone?"

"I don't know," John confessed. "Something I've learned is that sometimes life sucks. Shitty things happen to decent people."

"I just wish there was something I could do."

"Sherlock, you did do something. You're Fred's idol, and your visit probably made his year, maybe even his life. You gave him a memory, and that's one of the most special things you can gift to someone."

"It just kills me to know he'll never get to grow up and realize his full potential."

"Yeah, it blows. But he seems to have accepted it, and that's more than anyone can ask for. In a way, it's a mercy, however twisted that may sound. Most of his life that he can remember has been spent sick, in and out of hospital. At least he won't be in pain anymore."

"That's fair. There were times I considered if death would be preferable." As much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock knew it was true. The days when he felt like his bones were exploding and chemo had him so exhausted that even opening his eyes was a herculean effort, those were the worst. John had been the only thing keeping him going on those days.

"I'm glad you decided it wasn't," John said.

"Me too."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry...

They packed up the next morning to return to London. John had managed a few more hours of sleep after their conversation, but he could tell from the bags under the detective's eyes that Sherlock had not. He couldn't function on minimal sleep like he used to, and it was obvious when he didn't get enough rest. However, he nodded off as soon as they began the drive back home and stayed asleep for a good hour.

"Feeling any better?" John questioned when Sherlock's eyelids fluttered opened.

"Guess so," Sherlock yawned. "Are you okay? I know it wasn't exactly a restful night for either of us."

"I'm alright. I'm sorry for falling apart on you like that. I guess seeing Fred just triggered some old memories, and my subconscious had a heyday turning them into a horror show."

"Fred was right, wasn't he? He reminded you of me."

"Yes. When I first stepped into that room, I imagined you there instead of Fred and I panicked. For a second I thought everything since your recovery had been a dream and you were actually still sick. Fortunately, I managed to snap out of it."

"If I'd known this would affect you so dramatically, I wouldn't have asked you to come with me. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, it's not your fault. And you didn't ask me to come, I forced my company upon you."

"As you often do," Sherlock smirked.

"Not true! Half the time, you drag me places against my will."

"Fine. But my curiosity's getting the better of me, and I have to ask you one thing. If you don't want to answer or can't remember, I'll understand, but I'd like to know what happened in your dream. You were yelling at someone to stop."

John sighed, mentally preparing himself to relive it. He was a little hesitant, but Sherlock deserved to know. So he explained, "I guess it was a manifestation of my anxiety during the worst of the necrotizing fasciitis. Every time they took you away, I wondered if you'd still be intact when they returned you. In the dream, I saw you slowly turning black and people kept chopping off the dead parts until there was literally nothing left."

"That's horrible. I'm sorry."

"You've nothing to apologize for. It's just my brain making a mess of things like it always does."

"Your brain does not make a mess of things. Sure, it can't observe and piece together clues, but it's not nearly as bad as some I've encountered."

"It managed to convince me I couldn't walk after getting shot in the shoulder."

Sherlock hesitated, a little taken aback and John's blunt acknowledgement of his psychosomatic limp, but continued, "Fair enough. But it does lots of other things. Whatever my mind is lacking, yours has in abundance. You care about people, about everyone, and they know that. People can rely on you for almost anything."

"Almost?"

"Well, nobody's going to ask you to reach something on the top shelf for them," Sherlock sniggered. Of course he'd sneak up and hit John with a short joke. It wouldn't be the first time, and certainly not the last. John felt himself physically relax, the tension easing out of him like air from a deflating balloon. If Sherlock Holmes was poking fun at his height, all was right with the world.

~0~

A month later he got the message:

Fred passed yesterday morning. It was peaceful and painless. He wanted me to tell you that if cancer had to take one of them, he was glad it was him instead of Sherlock. He said criminals would roam the streets if Sherlock wasn't there to help the police catch them. I want to thank you again for everything you did for my son. You made him happy in a time when everything else in his life was rather depressing, and I will be forever grateful.

He requested to be buried with the hat Sherlock gave him, and of course we will honor that wish. He refused to part with that hat in life, and it only seems fitting for it to follow him into death. Thank you again for everything,

—Margaret Hunter

~0~

John had been expecting a notice like this for a while. But every day that passed brought him renewed hope that maybe, by some miracle, Fred had turned a corner. He'd outlived the doctors' expectations, but in the end had lost to the relentless onslaught of leukaemia. John had to read the message several times over to let it all sink in. Fred was gone.

He felt tears begin to burn at the back of his eyes, and he cleared his throat to draw Sherlock's attention. Their gazes met, and John could see that Sherlock knew exactly what had transpired. John stood up and left his laptop open with the message displayed so Sherlock could read it. He then ran to the bathroom and allowed himself to just cry. The emotional strain was simply too much, and he needed some form of physical release. About thirty minutes later, he composed himself enough to return to the living room. Sherlock didn't appear to have moved an inch, but John knew by the hollow look in his eyes that he'd read the message.

Sherlock didn't speak for two weeks. He ate and drank so little that John began to worry he'd need a trip to hospital for IV fluids. When they first met, Sherlock had warned John that sometimes he didn't talk for days on end. That had happened on several occasions, but never to this degree. He wandered around the flat like an aimless ghost, sometimes standing in front of the window and staring at cars for hours on end. If John tried to initiate a conversation, Sherlock would just leave the room silently.

Of course this behavior was concerning, but John didn't really start to panic until Sherlock declined a case from Lestrade. A case that would've been a seven. Sherlock had never said no to a case this interesting in all the years John had known him. John had a difficult time explaining this to Lestrade, who had no idea about the magnificent little boy that had nestled a home in Sherlock's heart a mere month ago. In the end, he decided just to tell Greg that Sherlock was sick. It was believable and it didn't raise too many follow-up questions.

At the two-week mark, John was at the end of his tether. It was expected for Sherlock to grieve, but this was unhealthy. In the last two days, he'd settled himself on the sofa with the butchery blanket and curled up into a tight little ball, refusing to move. If something didn't change soon, he might just wither away and die there. John knelt in front of the couch, and tried to coax any sort of reaction out of him.

"Sherlock, this has gotten out of hand. I know it hurts, I know you're grieving, but you can't just let yourself go. Honestly, I'm afraid of losing you too if you don't at least take care of yourself." Sherlock remained stoically silent, facing the back of the couch. "Sherlock, you haven't eaten in days. You're going to waste away to nothing. I've been trying so hard to help, but you won't even talk to me. What am I supposed to do? I can't just sit here and watch you do this to yourself." Still silence. "Fred wouldn't want you to destroy yourself over this." John saw Sherlock visibly tense at the mention of his name, but he still didn't move. "Sherlock, please. I'm begging you, at least let me make you a sandwich or something. You can't go on like this forever. Something's gotta give." Still nothing. "Sherlock, I'm scared. I have no way of knowing what's going on in your head. You're drifting away from me, and I'm trying to throw out a life preserver, but you refuse to grab it. Please, I can't lose you again!"

Sherlock slowly sat up and turned to face John. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, with dark circles beneath them. His lips were terribly chapped and his cheeks hollow. He looked John in the eye and croaked, voice hoarse from extensive disuse:

"It should've been me."

~0~

Hours later, John still had no clue what to think of that. After his declaration, Sherlock had rolled back over and returned to sullen silence. John had tried to cajole more out of him, had pleaded with him, had even threatened calling Mycroft, but to no avail. Sherlock was unreachable in his despair.

"It should've been me."

He valued Fred's life over his own; he'd be more than willing to trade places with him. If, somehow, it was true that leukaemia was destined to take the life of only one of them, Sherlock wanted to make that sacrifice. That was far too close to suicidal thoughts for John's liking. If this progressed any further, he didn't know what he'd do. A world without Sherlock was not one John Watson wanted to live in. For a while, he'd feared he might have to, and it had torn him apart.

How tragic would that story be if it came to fruition? A little boy dies of cancer and drives Sherlock Holmes to his own death, with John Watson taking the plunge not long after. What would that do to their friends? He knew that he and Sherlock were likes sons to Mrs. Hudson, and their loss would devastate her. And as hard as he tried to act aloof, Mycroft loved Sherlock deeply, the way only an elder brother could. And Lestrade didn't just need him to solve cases, no. He was as much a friend to Sherlock as John was. John couldn't even bear to think about how he'd break the news if the unthinkable ever happened to Sherlock. He himself might just keel over from sheer, overwhelming grief.

Which is why John could not allow Sherlock to drive himself off the edge, especially not when he was here to prevent it. He knew nobody could simply 'snap out of it' when it came to true depression, but he needed some way to lift Sherlock out of this funk. He needed Sherlock to recognize that none of this was remotely his fault, that there's nothing he can do beyond honoring Fred's memory.

John stood at the foot of the couch, watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall with each breath and wondering if he'd fallen asleep. He wasn't expecting Sherlock to acknowledge him, but a muffled grunt escaped Sherlock's lips: "Leave me alone."

"You're talking. That's a start," John encouraged. "Sherlock, I think we need to have a conversation about this."

"What for?"

"I need to tell you that I'm scared out of my mind watching you deteriorate like this. Every day I've hoped you'd be better, but things are just getting worse and worse and something needs to change before it all goes to hell."

"Believe me, it's already there," Sherlock grumbled.

"Maybe it is. But every time I leave the room I worry about what state I'll find you in when I return. I know you've got secret stashes in this flat, and at this rate I'm afraid you'll tap into them. You need to stop wallowing and face this head-on."

Sherlock sat up and John took a seat on the sofa next to him. They turned to face each other, and John recognized the look of sheer anguish he'd seen in the mirror all too often during Sherlock's illness.

"I just don't know what to do," Sherlock whimpered, his voice breaking.

John took a deep breath to steady himself and explained, "When you lose someone, you feel like the floor's been ripped out from under you. You try to find your footing, but there's nothing there but empty space. You could just float away and leave everything behind, but there are people on the ground who are important to you, and you know that you're just as important to them. So you have to find an anchor. Something to keep you grounded, something to help you see that you still have a purpose in this world, that it all didn't disappear."

"How do I do that?"

"You recognize everything and everyone who is still important to you and you hold them close. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft, Lestrade, and me, we all care about you. I care so much that seeing you like this breaks my heart. I've been trying to help, but you've just shut me out."

"After the message came, I would look at you and remember you panicking when you first saw Fred. You looked at him and you saw exactly what you feared would become of me. The way I feel right now, I can only imagine it would've been a hundred times worse for you if the disease had been too much for me. I feel guilty for making you endure that hardship."

"Sherlock, you can't beat yourself up over that. You didn't ask to get sick. But it happened, and we dealt with it however we could. This, too, is just something that happened. It's not your fault, it's nobody's fault, and we just have to deal with it however we can. But falling to pieces is not an option."

"Okay."

"First things first, I need you to eat something. Then tomorrow you should talk to Greg about that case he presented. Maybe work will keep your mind off things."

"How can I worry about some stupid case when the worst murderer of them all is a disease?"

"Because you can't cure cancer, Sherlock, not all by yourself. I know you experiment with all sorts of stuff around here, but you don't have the budget or the resources to tackle such a massive problem. You could put that brilliant mind of yours to thinking about it and maybe talk to some cancer research facilities if you come up with something, but that's a project too big for even you to tackle all on your own. Unfortunately, cancer kills, and it's going to continue killing. But you can bring other criminals to justice like you always have. That's exactly what Fred wants you to do."

John noticed his own usage of the present tense, and saw that Sherlock noted it also. Even if he was no longer living, Fred could still desire, and his wish for Sherlock to keep solving crimes would never die. And John knew that Sherlock's need for the thrill of puzzle-solving wouldn't either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you managed to enjoy this story, even though it's rather sad. I wish I could tell you that I'll be writing only happy things now, but that's not the case. I am very excited to announce my next full-length story: Norbury. It will explore an alternate ending to the Six Thatchers, rife with revelations, confessions, and angst. I should start posting by the end of this year, if all goes as planned. Thanks for reading!


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